


rendezvous

by juliabaccari



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 17:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12113886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliabaccari/pseuds/juliabaccari
Summary: An AU version of the Duel, wherein Helene invites Marya to the club that night for a secret rendezvous.





	rendezvous

_Darling,_

_Won’t you do me the favor of a little rendezvous at the Club tonight? I’ve sent along something for you to wear that would be perfect for the occasion, and I so look forward to seeing you in it._

_I miss you,_

_H._

 

It feels absolutely ridiculous, sneaking out of her own home. It is so absurd that Marya even considers promptly turning back to her room, taking off this ridiculous borrowed dress, and going to bed. But then she thinks of Hélène and how this may be their only chance to see one another for some time. It’s become more difficult, with the girls staying in Marya’s house, and all attention on them when they go out into society. Marya used to have some privacy, but now she accompanies two of Moscow’s newest, prettiest mysteries around, and that attracts gossip and rumors. If she’s seen in public with Hélène now, there will be no way to quell the talk.

Sometimes it amuses Marya, to think of how society would react if they knew. It would come to no one as a surprise that Hélène was having an affair, even having an affair with a woman - but Marya? She doubts anyone would have guessed such a thing was possible. 

But no one knows. And no one ever will.

If she’s careful.

She steels her resolve and gathers her cloak tighter around herself, slipping through the front door and closing it carefully behind her. Natasha and Sonya are long asleep, they shouldn’t miss her tonight. If they do, Marya will have to make up some excuse - anything other than her intent to visit the club that the Kuragins and Fedya Dolokhov love to frequent.

Her expression colors with distaste as she thinks of it. It is definitely not a place she’d prefer to go; it’s dingy and in disrepair, and no one cares because they are drunk on vodka and the dim lights. It is incredible, the things Marya has found herself willing to do for just a taste of Hélène. She remembers when she could not understand how the ‘queen of society’ so easily drove the men around her mad with want, mad with rage - she was naive then. Now she knows the lengths she too will go for Hélène.

As she draws near to the club, she begins to re-arrange her hair, pulling enough of it down around her face to serve as cover. No one’s seen her with her hair down in years. Marya’s unchanging, traditional style will lend itself well to disguising her at the club - no one would suspect it was her, not in this dress. Hélène's dress. It’s tight, ridiculously so - like nothing Marya’s worn since her debut in society many years ago, when she laced herself up in corsets trying to appear all the more alluring. She’d been a fool then. Thinking she wanted a husband, that she could be happy with a man.

She gives up her cloak at the door of the club; the attendant’s eyes pass right over her. He is a stranger, and Marya is grateful. God, to be caught here. She looks down at herself; the fabric - what little there is of it - is strange and smooth, dyed a deep emerald green. Metallic threads are woven into the bodice. Hélène is obsessed with the shine of Parisian fabrics.

The music is loud, but the shadows dark, and Marya sticks to them as she moves through the building. She does not see Hélène or her companions yet. Annoyance flares up in her; Hélène could at least be on time, if she requires Marya to suffer this environment. 

She gets a drink while she waits, disappears to the corner of the room where she can observe who enters while simultaneously not attracting any attention. At least this place has decent vodka; it is still Moscow, after all.

Luckily she does not have to wait long. She refuses to admit it to herself, but the room seems to brighten with Hélène's entrance. Perhaps it’s the shine of her dress. The entire skirt is made of a metallic fabric, and her throat glints with bright jewelry, chains dipping low on her bodice. The entire look is meant to attract attention, and it does: Marya tracks several heads that turn to look at the Countess. She scowls. They’re meant to be discreet tonight, and she’s not sure how they’re meant to sneak off if everyone in the club is looking at Hélène. As always, the woman is accompanied by her swaggering brother, his hair a blonde tower barely sustained by what Marya is sure is copious amounts of expensive product. The assassin, Dolokhov, trails after them both. She sees him touch Hélène on the arm, but he drops his hand when Hélène glances at him with narrowed eyes, then looks behind her. Which is when Pierre enters.

Marya tenses, her grip tightening around the glass. Pierre’s not supposed to be here. She and Hélène have been very careful never to be seen together in his presence; it would not do to have Hélène's husband - and Marya’s old friend - grow suspicious of their relationship. For all he has ever known, Marya has never liked Hélène. He would not understand Marya’s sudden urge to be in her company. 

And of course, Marya feels some sense of guilt, not only for cavorting with Hélène but for keeping it from Pierre. She’s as guilty as Hélène for the affair. Some part of her hopes that, at least, Pierre would prefer it be her than Dolokhov. At least they’re friends. At least she’s discrete. She doesn’t create a mockery of him by showing Hélène off in public. 

Marya, once, expressed an interest in coming clean to Pierre - perhaps he wouldn’t mind, she’d said, perhaps he would be happy they’d both found someone. Perhaps it would improve the state of Hélène's marriage, if she were honest and frank with Pierre. Hélène had stoutly refused. “He’s a drunk. We can’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.” She’d said. “Our marriage is nothing more than a front, Marya. I don’t know why you should feel guilty. He doesn’t love me, or want me. You’re not taking a thing from him.”

Still, the reality of what she is doing - what they are doing - hits hard as she watches Pierre walk into the Club alongside Hélène. It’s true, he does not take the Countess’s arm or even look at her; no one would guess the two are married if they did not know it already. But he’s here, and he could easily recognize Marya, and what then? What excuse could she possibly give?

At last, she catches Hélène's furtive gaze, surveying the room for a sign of her. When their eyes connect, she sees relief in the woman’s eyes, coupled with a guilty twist of the mouth. She looks apologetic. Their connection is broken as Anatole sweeps in front of his sister, taken her gaily in his arms and twirling her around, laughing. He seems to be teasing her. “Come now, smile, sweet sister.” Marya hears him say, but Hélène shakes her head. “Go get us drinks. Take Pierre and Dolokhov.” She instructs, shoving at his arm. “I’ll meet you later. At the table. Don’t come looking for me.” Anatole laughs, eyebrow raised with mischief alight in his eyes. “Oh, of course.” He says, mockingly gracious, and sweeps a bow before moving towards the other two men of their party and leading them away.

Quickly, Hélène crosses the room towards Marya, ducking into the shadowy booth. “I did not invite _him_.” She says first, firmly. “Anatole brought him along.” 

Marya shakes her head. “It’s fine. We should not be so foolish as to think your husband shall never accompany you out. We’ll see each other another time.” She moves to stand, but Hélène reaches out, gripping her wrist and preventing her from moving.

“No! No, Marya, it’s been almost a week.” They have not seen each other, aside from their brief interaction at the Opera, since Sonya and Natasha moved in with Marya. “And who knows when we shall have another opportunity? There is the ball, of course, but as host I will not be able to disappear for long.” Her grip softens, and she slides her hand down to intertwine her fingers with Marya’s. She holds her hand softly. It always strikes Marya, how unexpectedly gentle Hélène can be with her.

“It’s bad enough your brother and Fedya Dolokhov are here, but Pierre? Hélène, we could not possibly be so bold.”

“He will be drinking so much he will not notice where I am, or where I am not. Anatole will make sure of that.”

“You’ve coerced your brother into helping you? Does he know -?”

“No, of course not. He doesn’t know who, anyway. I made some implications I had someone to meet, he drew his own conclusions. He doesn’t care what I get up to, but he will keep Pierre and Dolokhov from looking for me, for awhile.” Hélène slides closer in the booth. Her free hand moves to Marya’s thigh, warm through the silky fabric. She leans close enough that Marya can feel her breath on her neck. “You look wonderful in this.”

“I look ridiculous.” Marya complains, half-heartedly. She tilts her neck back, allowing Hélène to place a kiss just under the line of her jaw.

“You’re beautiful.” Hélène says insistently. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed the feel of you.” 

Marya feels a shiver pass through her. God, she didn’t used to be so easy.

“Hélène, it’s only been a few days.”

“Did you not miss me?” Hélène asks, pulling back so Marya can see her playful pout. Her eyes are shining. It’s clear she knows that Marya wants Hélène just as badly. “Did you not think of me? Of what we could be doing, if we were together? I thought of so many things -”

Marya leans in, covering that wicked mouth with hers. She kisses her roughly, passionately. Hélène responds as eagerly as ever, surging forward so she nearly winds up in Marya’s lap. She’s always reckless with her kisses; she makes love like a force of nature. Her love strips Marya bare, lays her out, ravishes even her soul. Normally, Marya submits to this storm with little protest - but she’s not about to allow Hélène to make love to her in the middle of this club. She grabs her hand, just as it begins to paw at Marya’s skirt.

“Not here.” She says, looking over Hélène's shoulder at the rest of the club. The other patrons are ignoring them, tucked away in their dim corner. Still - it’s too much of a risk.

“Then where?” Hélène asks, breaking free of Marya’s grip, expert fingers sliding down over silky fabric.

“Hélène.” Marya grabs her wrist this time, forcing it away from her lap, pinning it to the wall of the booth. Hélène gasps, but it’s a pleased little sound, a grin sliding over her lips.

“Come on, dragon, I know you want to. You can do anything you want to me, I don’t mind -”

“It’s a risk.”

“It’s always a risk. But it’s safer here than you think. People here are used to this sort of thing, they won’t think twice - and I can be quiet, I promise.” Her smirk seems to suggest otherwise, and Marya frowns. 

“It would do you some good for people to say no to you more often, Countess.” Marya says, even as she admires the way Hélène's delicate wrist looks under her fingers, her body prone against the booth, submitting to Marya completely.

“Perhaps.” She agrees. “But you won’t, will you?”

“We can’t be caught.”

“We won’t be. But you’re wasting time arguing with me, lover.”

“Hélène, of all places -”

“There’s nowhere else, since you invited the girls to stay with you.”

“I could hardly turn away my own goddaughter, my family.”

“And it’s not as though we could use my house.”

Marya sighs. “You must be silent.”

“Silent? Now, Marya, how can I -?”

“Not a sound.” Marya says, voice pitched low, face close to Hélène's. She watches her shiver, and then nod her agreement.

Just as Marya reaches for Hélène's skirts, there is a shout from across the room - a voice she recognizes. Fedya Dolokhov, drunk, trouble in his tone.

“Well, now, you haven’t noticed she’s been missing all night, have you Pierre?” His voice carries across the room. Marya feels Hélène go tense, and she releases her wrist and moves back quickly. “Your own wife, and not a care what she’s been up to. At least I noticed -”

“Fedya, that’s enough.” Anatole’s voice cuts in, attempting a jovial tone. “Come now, this is a silly argument.”

“How can you stand it? He doesn’t even try to love her.”

The conversation’s volume drops out of hearing range for the moment, and Marya breathes out her tension, hoping Anatole has calmed Dolokhov enough that there will be no more of a scene tonight.

Marya glances at Hélène. When her eyes meet Marya’s, she quickly shakes her head.

“Fedya doesn’t love me, either.”

“It sounds like he does.” Marya says, a trace of ice to her voice, discomfort sitting heavy on her chest.

“No - not like that, no, Marya. He likes to make trouble. He’s my friend, and he hates Pierre, but that’s not why…”

“He’s always flirting with you in public. Is that just to make trouble?”

“Yes, and he -” Hélène sighs. “He would kill me if I told you this.”

“What?”

“Dolokhov uses me to disguise his true feelings.” Hélène says meaningfully, looking Marya in the eyes, but she doesn’t comprehend. This prompts Hélène to go on, “For Anatole.”

“For -?” Marya’s brow furrows, then raises instantly as it clicks. “Ah. I see.”

“Yes. So, you see? Nothing to be jealous about.”

“And who said I was jealous?”

Hélène smirks, and the expression is so maddening that Marya decides at once to kiss it off of her. As soon as she leans down, however, they are interrupted by another shout - Dolokhov calling Hélène's name. Marya sits back, sighing in frustration.

“Marya, I’m sorry…”

“Go. Deal with this.” Marya says stiffly, her anger less for Hélène than for the world in general, for Dolokhov, for the unfairness of it all. Hélène touches a hand to her cheek, and nods. In a moment she is gone.

“Fedya, what is all this?” Marya hears her voice call out gaily, not a hint of anything amiss in her tone. Marya scoots closer to the edge of the booth, even though she is ashamed of herself for wanting to eavesdrop.

“And where have you been, dear Hélène? This evening has been desolate without you.” Dolokhov says. Marya could turn around to try and spot them in the crowd, they sound nearby, but he’s probably got his arm around Hélène and she doesn’t want to see that. Even if Dolokhov is really in love with Anatole, Marya is tired of seeing anyone else’s hands on her. When did this strange jealousy become her reality?

“Can a girl not go fix her make up?” Hélène is replying.

“See there, Fedya, I told you - girls always take so long at their appearances, our dear Hélène is no exception, natural beauty though she is.”

“I suppose, if that is your idea of fixing your lipstick - it appears to be halfway across your face.”

“Well, you interrupted me with your bellowing. It startled my hand.”

Marya turns then, unable to help it. She can see Hélène's face, but not enough detail to spot the mark Fedya speaks of. A mark she made. She should not be so proud, it nearly got them caught. She looks past Hélène to see Pierre, drink in hand and squinting under his little round glasses. He looks sad; Marya’s heart sinks. What Hélène and Dolokhov have both professed is true - he doesn’t love Hélène. But he once did, or wanted to. He tried to. They both tried. The fact that it didn’t work doesn’t assuage Marya’s guilt or pain at Pierre’s loneliness. 

When she focuses back in on Hélène, Dolokhov has indeed slipped an arm around her waist. He is grinning a tipsy grin and his eyes are on Anatole. Anatole himself doesn’t seem to notice how Dolokhov’s gaze lingers - God, Marya thinks, what a pitiful bunch they all are.

“We should have a toast.” Dolokhov’s voice rings out across the club. Anatole laughs along, passing his sister a full glass.

“Alright then, a toast to what, my friend?” 

“To the health of married women.” Marya frowns at the mischief in Dolokhov’s voice - she turns to look at Anatole, watches his brow furrow slightly. Anatole knows his sister is here to meet someone, knows Dolokhov is not Hélène's lover - he doesn’t seem to understand why Dolokhov insists on picking a fight with Pierre over her. But Marya’s not certain it’s about Hélène at all. If Hélène is a cover for Dolokhov’s true nature, he is only keeping up the ruse, and perhaps - perhaps hoping to use Hélène as a tool for jealousy. Marya would wish him luck penetrating the thick skull of Anatole Kuragin, excepting that she rather wants to tear Dolokhov’s hands off at the wrist for touching Hélène.

“Pierre, won’t you join in?” Dolokhov teases, slightly cruel, and Pierre frowns and steps forward. He glances at his wife, who refuses to meet his eyes.

“To the health of married women - and, of course, their lovers.” Dolokhov winks, laughs - and, completely reckless, leans over to kiss Hélène on the mouth in front of everyone. Marya jerks involuntarily, stifling the urge to stand up. Her elbow makes contact with her forgotten glass, sending it flying to the floor in a clutter. She tries to duck out of sight - but she’s too late. Only Anatole looks over, the rest of them focused on Dolokhov and Hélène. He meets Marya’s eyes and his expression grows confused.

“How dare you!” Pierre bellows, and Anatole is torn back to the matter at hand. Hélène's hands are on Dolokhov’s chest, pushing him away. She looks cold and composed, but Marya can see the fury lurking under the calm expression. Hélène only likes to make a scene at her own design. Anatole takes his sister’s arm, leading her to the side as Pierre approaches Dolokhov angrily. He dwarfs the other man, but Dolokhov looks as fearless and proud as ever. 

“Well, if you’re not going to kiss your wife, someone ought to.” He says, cocking an eyebrow, careless. Marya grows tenser yet; the air in the room is charged, and she’s waiting for the dam to break. Pierre used to be so gentle, so easy-mannered. He’s changed, and his temper can be terrible.

“You should not have touched her. Such vile and dishonorable behavior - I must challenge you for it.” Pierre declares, even though his words are a touch slurred, clearly influenced by drink. Hélène's sharp inhale is audible. Her expression collapses into one of fury, and she darts forward as if to get between the two men, but is quickly pulled back by her brother. He has to wrap an arm around her waist to restrain her, and Marya can spot his wince as Hélène's heel makes contact with one of his shins.

“You’ll get yourself killed.” She spits at her husband, seething. Pierre turns to her, but his eyes focus on a point past her shoulder.

“So I shall die.” He says plainly. Marya’s heart squeezes horribly. When did it all get so bad? How did she not notice her old friend hurting so terribly? He has at all points been impulsive, perhaps, but this - a duel with an expert marksman and assassin who clearly holds him in contempt - this is beyond the bounds of impulse.

“No, you must call this off, my stupid, stupid husband.” Anatole finally lets Hélène go when she relaxes her struggling; she takes a step towards Pierre and puts her hand on his arm, imploringly. This is the first time Marya has seen Hélène touch him with any gentleness in years. “This is not a joke, or a bit of fun. He will kill you.” She glances towards Dolokhov, but her reproachful expression does nothing to dull his smirk.

“Come on now, it’s fun. I love a good duel.” The assassin professes. Anatole groans.

“My sister is right, Pierre, Dolokhov, this is stupid.” He says, even as Pierre shakes Hélène's arm off.

“What does it matter to you?” He asks his wife, as though her answer does not matter at all. As though his mind is already made up. Hélène looks as though she’s been slapped, but she steps away. She seems to shake just slightly, and Marya’s not sure whether it’s with rage or despair.   
“Anatole, give me a gun.”

“Anatole, _don’t_ -”

“Be quiet, wife. You’ll embarrass me no further.”

Anatole looks at his sister and shrugs helplessly, moving forward to assist Pierre with preparations for the duel. “If I don’t, he’ll be worse off.” He says to Hélène, who doesn’t respond. She looks as if she’s barely holding back a tirade. 

Marya wants to do something to stop this. Nothing good can come of it. But she can’t - she shouldn’t even be here, and her sudden unexplained presence might cause more harm than good, the state Pierre is in. She only hopes he isn’t far gone enough that he may threaten to shoot her, too. But he wouldn’t. He’s a good man, she thinks. He’s a good man, she knows.

The men in the club go about organizing the dueling grounds, mapping out a space on the club floor. Dolokhov prowls as he waits, more predator than man. Every time his gaze passes over Anatole, it flickers, dims. Is love really enough to drive someone to act so wildly, so without regard? Is the want of love so bad that it unleashes so much anger even at unworthy sources? Marya’s eyes fall to Hélène and she thinks, perhaps it is, perhaps it’s worth all this.

No one else is looking at Hélène. Maybe that’s why her expression is so brittle, so openly pained. Marya wants to gather her lover in her arms now, to comfort her. To promise her it will be alright. That she isn’t about to witness her husband murdered on false pretenses by her pretend lover, while her real lover watches helplessly. 

Marya knows what happens to widowed women. It is possible to come back from it, of course - but this scandal may ruin Hélène. And as cold as the woman seems to the outside world, Marya knows the guilt of Pierre’s death will weigh heavily on her. 

“Marya Dmitriyevna.” A soft voice says to her right, and she startles, not having noticed the man walking up to her. She takes in a sharp breath as she sees stark white-blonde hair fill her vision. “You didn’t notice me approaching, eh? My sister tends to have that effect. I have to work very hard to steal the attention from her sometimes, you know? I make it look effortless, I know, but -”

“Anatole Kuragin.” Marya cuts in sharply, her posture straightening defensively. “What is it you want? Shouldn’t you be doing something about this...this charade?” She gestures to indicate the duel.

“Ah, Pierre is all prepared. I’ll coach him through it.” Anatole shrugs a shoulder. He looks far too relaxed for the situation at hand. “It was more important I come over and meet the woman my sister’s so obsessed with.”

“I - I hardly think that is appropriate - you’re mistaken, Anatole.”

“Am I? You think I don’t recognize her dress on you?”

“This - this is mine. You’re wrong.”

“Please. I had it custom made for her last birthday.” He shakes his head. “There’s no reason to try and be so secretive about it now, Marya. I’ve found you two out.” He grins, and Marya instantly hates the expression. “I think it’s quite charming. You’re both very beautiful. I know most people would be surprised, since you are also so different, but it makes sense. What a striking and formidable pair you are.”

“I tire of this conversation, Kuragin.”

“Ah, of course. A case of the wrong Kuragin, eh? Listen, I just wanted to tell you I’ve noticed how much happier my dear sister has been lately. I’m quite grateful for that.” He leans closer, dropping his voice a little. “Between you and me, I do think she might love you. Anyway, she’s going to be very upset after all of this is over, so -”

“Her husband may die tonight, must you continue to blather on like an idiot?” Marya cuts in, frustrated with his lackadaisical attitude. She refuses to let herself dwell on what Anatole has said; he’s a careless fool, what use are his opinions on love? He falls in love again and again every fortnight. “If you cared for her, you would stop this.”

“You overestimate my influence! I cannot stop either Pierre or Dolokhov. But I noticed you don’t try, either.”

“I cannot. I cannot be seen here, and-”

“Because you are here to meet my sister, yes. I suppose that _would_ be a shock to Pierre and to all of Moscow.” He smirks as if the thought pleases him, and it probably does. It is Marya’s own fault for getting involved with a Kuragin, they do seem to attract trouble and revel in it. At least Hélène is smarter than her brother about it.

Marya sighs. “But _you_ are not surprised.”

“I’ll admit I was a little, when I first saw you. But as I said, it makes perfect sense! Very few people are a match for Hélène. She needs someone as strong and independent as herself. And, of course, someone who doesn’t like to argue with her husband.” He pauses, looking uncharacteristically considerate. “Dolokhov will not shoot Pierre. I’ll talk to him.”

“That man will not lose his reputation as a daredevil marksman for a man he clearly cares nothing for.”

Anatole frowns, and the serious expression looks strange on his face. She cannot read the odd look in his eyes - is it guilt, resignation? Perhaps both. “I know.” He says finally. “He’ll do it for me.”

He leaves as Marya looks at him with surprise, and he makes a beeline for Dolokhov. She watches him draw the man aside, a hand tenderly on his shoulder, and she’s not sure what to make of this act. Anatole is not usually selfless - but perhaps his older sister does bring out his softer side. She’s only surprised he seems aware enough to realize the power he holds over Dolokhov, and seems to regret having to use it.

Anatole rejoins his sister, who looks at him curiously, if a bit warily. He leans over to her and whispers in her ear, and they both look over to where Marya is sitting. Anatole gives a jaunty little wave, but Hélène looks a bit alarmed. Marya doesn’t blame her. No matter what happens tonight, Anatole finding out about them is no small matter. He loves his sister, but he’s a foolish man by nature, and not even a sensible man can be trusted when he drinks. 

Marya shakes her head once, indicating they will deal with the matter at another time. Hélène nods and seems to resolve herself. The duel is beginning - it is almost like a stage just before the curtain rises, attracting all attention and anticipation. Pierre is unsteady on his feet, Dolokhov looking as casual as though he really were attending an opera or some other society function.

The man chosen to moderate begins to count, and Anatole squeezes his sister’s shoulder. He then moves closer to the action, closer to Pierre. Marya watches him make brief but significant eye contact with Dolokhov. “Pierre, hold your fire.” Anatole advises firmly. Unfortunately, the older man doesn’t seem to be listening to him. “Pierre, steady, Pierre -”

With wild, unfocused aim, the gun in Pierre’s hand goes off. There’s a shout - Dolokhov’s - and he collapses to the floor. Anatole goes to his side, kneeling, a hand on his back. “His shoulder is hit.” He announces. Marya watches Hélène, holding herself firmly in place. She looks steely and unaffected. Most people wouldn’t be able to spot the lie of it. Perhaps Hélène likes Marya because Marya can always see through her - Hélène does not have to forcibly open herself up, stitch by stitch, when Marya can simply look at her and know. She does not have to break herself to be understood.

“I’m fine.” Dolokhov wretches himself angrily from Anatole’s grip, wincing only a little. “And now, it’s my shot.” He stands, stumbling only briefly. His white shirt is stained at the shoulder but he still holds his gun confidently. Pierre is looking down at the gun in his own hand as if he doesn’t recognize it.

“Dolokhov, please -” Anatole begins, and Dolokhov cuts him off with a look.

“It’s my shot.” He says, but his expression is gentle. Anatole frowns and steps back again.

Pierre nods, and stands up straight, taking in a deep breath. He seems utterly resigned. Hélène, almost shaking now, takes a step forward. Pierre’s head swivels to look at her; Marya cannot see his expression, but whatever it is, Hélène freezes. Even Anatole looks worried, glancing back and forth between Dolokhov and Pierre.

Dolokhov steps forward and Pierre faces him, holding his arms wide open. It looks like an invitation. 

Dolokhov raises his arm.

His hand is steady.

The shot fires and Pierre crumples forward, instantly --

Hélène screams. It pierces Marya’s heart; she nearly rushes from the booth to her side, consequences be damned.

The club falls silent and everyone is utterly still. 

And then Pierre stands.

He looks around, bewildered, but unhurt. Anatole has Hélène in his arms, she’s bent over as if she too nearly collapsed, clutching at her brother’s arms. When she sees that Pierre is fine, she throws off Anatole’s grip. Anger casts a sharp look over her features.

Dolokhov lays his gun down, sinks to the floor. “Missed, eh.” He mutters pathetically. He doesn’t sound surprised, though, and Marya wonders if Anatole’s request to Dolokhov was indeed heeded.

“Take him away.” Hélène says in a voice made of steel, not even sparing Dolokhov a glance as a few men help him up and lead him out of the club. Her eyes are locked on Pierre, who still stands as though in a daze.

She steps closer to him, but does not touch him. She looks like ice made flesh. “You are a fool.” She says, as though it is some awful proclamation, the diagnosis of a terminal illness or some like.

Pierre doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t appear that Hélène was expecting any response. She glances at Anatole, and that commanding look is all it takes for Anatole to step forward and clasp his hand to Pierre’s shoulder. He smiles as though they’d just done a round of shots, not had a duel, and carefully retrieves Pierre’s gun. “Alright then, Pierre, now that’s done, let’s get you home, shall we? Sleep it off.”

Pierre nods silently, and begins to stagger off towards the door. Anatole turns to Hélène, takes her hands. “Sweet sister, are you alright?” He asks, affectionate but not altogether terribly concerned. Hélène nods; it looks insincere. Anatole smiles anyway, oblivious.

“Wonderful. There is something I wanted to ask you - for the ball next week -”

“Later, Anatole.” Hélène says, breaking away from him.

“But, Yelena -”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

Anatole’s protestations die on his lips as Hélène walks away, towards Marya. He blinks, and nods, turning to leave and see Pierre home.

Marya stands before Hélène can reach her, not caring if she bares her face to the mostly empty club. There is no one left to recognize her now. She opens her arms and allows Hélène to burrow into them, clutching tightly at Marya’s waist. 

“Oh, Hélène…” Marya murmurs as Hélène buries her face in her shoulder. 

“I can’t go back to that house tonight, Marya.” She murmurs. “I cannot see that fool, nor speak to him of the shame he’s caused, his temper will get the better of him again -”

“It is alright.” Marya soothes her, running a gentle hand over her back. “You will come home with me.”

“But the girls -”

“They’ll still be asleep when we arrive. In the morning, we’ll say you’re calling on us and you will join us for breakfast.”

“I have wanted to visit; I do need to extend you an invitation.” Hélène says, pulling back slightly. Her eyes are slightly red, as if irritated by wind or cold.

Marya arches a brow.

“To my ball. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? To invite Moscow’s two newest young ladies to the Kuragin ball? And they’ll need a chaperone…”

“Isn’t it dangerous? After this - spectacle -”

“Pierre will hide in his study all night, after his shameful behavior tonight. Besides, what would he care, to see us greeting one another if you have the girls along? He quite clearly believes I am throwing myself at Dolokhov. He will not suspect us.”

“Very well.” Marya nods. “Come on now. You need rest.”

Hélène allows Marya to lead her from the club, slipping out of the back door discreetly. It is late and they don’t wish for a troika driver to see them together, so they walk to Marya’s home, huddled together against the cold and the wind nipping at their cloaks. Marya unlocks the door, but Hélène lays a hand on her arm before she can open it. At Marya’s questioning look, she smiles.

“Just once, out here, in the snow and the moonlight.” She says, leaning up to kiss Marya, balancing on the toes of her boots. Her hand is light on Marya’s waist. She smiles into the kiss. It lingers a long moment before they part; Marya feels indescribably light.

“Alright, now, come in - you’ll freeze. We’ll both freeze, I don’t know how you dress like this every day.” Marya smiles, finds herself laughing softly when Hélène grins back. “Inside,” She scolds, hand on the door. “Come inside.”

“Oh, I _will_.” Hélène smirks, leans close again, presses a kiss to Marya’s cheek. She slips past Marya when she opens the door, hand trailing over her bodice, and if Marya can blame the resulting shiver on the cold, so much the better.

She shuts the door behind them, happiness blossoming in her chest. Her grand, mostly empty house feels more like home, with Hélène here.

It cannot last, but that does not mean she cannot enjoy it, for tonight.

It does not mean she can prevent herself from falling in love.


End file.
